


Tuesday For Health

by veronamay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual!Sherlock, Cuddling and Snuggling, Domestication, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, bad day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-12
Updated: 2010-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:14:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Naturally, it was Tuesday.  The worst things always seemed to happen on Tuesdays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesday For Health

**Author's Note:**

> For the "bad day" prompt on my [schmoop_bingo](http://schmoop-bingo.livejournal.com) card.
> 
> Contains mention of terminal cancer (brief and off-screen).
> 
> Thanks to [lydia_petze](http://lydia-petze.livejournal.com) for beta.

_Monday for wealth, Tuesday for health, Wednesday the best day of all: Thursday for crosses, Friday for losses, Saturday no luck at all._  
~ old English wedding rhyme

 

Naturally, it was a Tuesday. The worst things always seemed to happen on Tuesdays: _the incident_ with Mycroft; the confrontation with Moriarty; that badly-timed experiment with magnesium three years ago.

Now there was this: John's slow footsteps trudging up from the street; John entering the sitting room in uncharacteristic silence, sitting down very carefully in his chair, as if it might break under him. One sideways glance from the kitchen told Sherlock everything he needed to know about John's current state of mind.

 _Someone's died, or is dying. Not someone important--not Harry or Clara or anyone he knows, but someone. Clenched fists, pale face, dry eyes, no crying. A patient, then. Someone he's not close to but he feels responsible for. Not an emergency; he's still but he's not tense, there was no bloodshed. It's someone he's fond of, or he wouldn't be so quiet. The grandmotherly type, or a child, possibly._

A short, fast, furious debate occurred in Sherlock's brain as he processed the available information. His eyes remained fixed on John's slumped form, taking in the deliberately steady rise and fall of his shoulders, his downturned head, the way his hands kept clenching and loosening on the arms of the chair.

 _This requires more than tea._

Approximately five seconds after John sat down, Sherlock was standing in front of him. He waited while John's eyes opened and his head came up, and then he held out his hand.

"No." John's voice cracked slightly. "It's been a long day, Sherlock. I'm not in the mood to watch you make gelignite from scratch."

"Shut up," Sherlock said. "Up. Now."

He took John's hands and hauled him to his feet, making a mental note to ask later how John had known what his current experiment was. John moved reluctantly, distress written in the lines of his face. Sherlock chose not to notice, instead focusing on the end goal.

John's body was twisted to the right, preparatory to entering the kitchen; when Sherlock tugged him across the room instead, he tilted and stumbled into Sherlock's chest. His surprised exhale raised the tiny hairs on Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock's grip tightened involuntarily in response.

"What--" John began, but the _what_ was already glaringly obvious, or it ought to have been, so Sherlock didn't bother answering. He towed John to the sofa and kicked the coffee table aside.

"Down," Sherlock commanded.

He fell back onto the sofa and pulled John along with him, ignoring his friend's spluttering attempts to free himself. John, thus thwarted, more or less collapsed in an ungainly pile on Sherlock's torso.

"Sherlock!"

John pushed himself up onto his hands, braced over Sherlock's shoulders, and stared down at him. His wonderfully expressive face was full of open disbelief. Sherlock rolled his eyes and collapsed John's rigid elbows with a couple of well-placed pushes, wrapping his leg around the backs of John's knees to make him stay down.

"Lie still," he said. "Stay." He put a hand on John's head to make sure.

"I'm not a bloody dog," John protested. His voice was somewhat muffled, due to his face being pressed into Sherlock's neck. "I might follow you all over London half the time, but--"

"Was I not clear about the shutting up?"

Sherlock put his free hand on the nape of John's neck and proceeded to slide it down over his still-jacketed back in a long, slow caress. Not too much pressure, but enough to be felt; enough for John to know it, for his body to catalogue it and process it and use it to relax. Up, and down, and up again, in time with his own breathing, in order to drain the tension from John's shoulders and lessen the signs of strain in his face. It didn't take long at all for John to melt into Sherlock's touch; it was gratifyingly fast, in fact. Sherlock measured the slowing beat of John's heart against his own, felt their breathing change and match into synchronicity, and breathed an inner sigh when the last remnants of John's resistance faded away.

The entire procedure took maybe thirty seconds.

Once he was sure John wasn't going to move, Sherlock shifted just enough to be able to pull at John's jacket. John helpfully shrugged out of it, his face still buried in Sherlock's neck; once freed, his arms fell back down, framing Sherlock's body. Sherlock felt John's hands curling underneath and around his shoulders, slow and hesitant, and let the jacket fall where it might. He put his hand in John's hair again ( _soft warm nice_ ) and resumed stroking his back, savouring the feel of John's musculature beneath the thin wool-blend jumper.

After a few more minutes, Sherlock spoke.

"Do you want to tell me?"

John sighed, and the hairs on Sherlock's neck stood up again. John shifted to put his cheek flat against Sherlock's chest, a welcome and pleasant weight over his heart.

"I had to deliver some bad news," he said in a quiet voice quite unlike his usual tones. "It was …"

"Upsetting?" Sherlock offered.

"Yeah." John's hands tightened around his shoulders for a moment. "I've never been good at that part."

Sherlock doubted that, but said nothing. He kept up the slow sweep of his hand from neck to waist, over and over, comforting and hypnotic. More silence, then, for several minutes, until he was half-convinced John had fallen asleep.

"Cancer," John murmured at last. "Young bloke, younger than you. Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma."

"Unpleasant."

"Very."

Sherlock didn't even think about it; he simply dropped his head a bit and pressed a kiss to John's hairline, resting his forehead there afterward. John tensed momentarily, then seemed to sink even further into him, going boneless in his hold. Silence reigned in the flat for some time, their soft breathing and the dripping of the kitchen tap the only sounds to be heard.

When the front door slammed and Mrs Hudson's television clicked on below, the interlude was over. John started and pushed himself up onto his knees with a little cough of embarrassment. His cheeks flushed red and he refused to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"Um," he said. "Thanks."

Sherlock's chest felt cold and hollow. He stayed where he was, sprawled out and comfortable, traitorous twitching fingers reaching out and tapping John's knee.

"Anytime," he replied. When John's eyes met his own in surprise, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Yes, really."

John stared at him for a long moment, head tilted to the side in his peculiar I'm-considering-you pose. Then his own hand came out, tracing along Sherlock's cheekbone, cupping the side of his face in a warm hold. The tips of John's fingers nestled in Sherlock's hair.

"Tea?" John suggested, as if they weren't freshly roused from the most intense physical contact Sherlock had ever experienced.

"Mm." Sherlock covered John's hand with his own and squeezed. "I bought you some chocolate HobNobs."

"Sweet talker."

John took Sherlock's hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing a quick kiss to the palm. In the next instant he was up and in the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to stare at his faintly tingling palm. He folded his fingers over it protectively, a small private smile curving his mouth.

 _Wednesday the best day of all._


End file.
